Fault
by mebh
Summary: The dangers of being a human weapon. hurt!roy


**I fell very far behind in Nano and I'm desperate to get my wordcount back on track so I had to resort to some hurt!Roy.**

**No beta. I'm tired. Loads of typos. Onward.**

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He had yet to have an outburst. He wished it had come sooner. If it had happened at the beginning of his engagement, he wouldn't now be awaiting it like an inevitable coming-apart. He feared it so deeply that some nights he dreamed of turning supernova and destroying the whole world. Other nights he dreamed of stuffing the enemy into his mouth in messy handfuls, masticating with great effort and tasting the bitter metal of human flesh as it slid past his tongue and down his throat. On those nights, he'd awaken to find he'd bitten his tongue or cheek. It was fairly common amongst the ranks; this light, unconscious self-harm. The staff doctor assured him it was perfectly natural. This disturbed him greatly. He'd never once brought it up to the doctor and denied it even happened on every occasion. The woman accepted his rebuttal with a quiet nod.

He glanced down at his watch. It was almost midday. Al Debrah lay in front of him like a dropped thing. It scarcely seemed worth it; clearing out a city that could only house petty, poorly equipped squadrons now that Kimbley had done his work. It was very likely abandoned at this very moment since Colonel Dubroff had sent his own troops through to flush out any remaining combatants. But the powers-that-be wanted the town flattened to the ground. Major Mustang was the perfect man for the job: he was very efficient, the higher-ups had been told. A dab-hand at total destruction with very little collateral. It would be dust in a matter of minutes.

His craft was very near perfected this far into the war. Not even the desert squalls could upset his alchemy. There were no variables he hadn't accounted for. God knows, he'd had sufficient practice by now. _Even death can be delivered in a daydream_, he thought, feeling the weight of his eyelids; the slowing of his mind in the impossible heat.

'When you're ready, major,' said colonel Abernethy. 'We are very much looking forward to your fireworks.'

Mustang heard only what was important: the order. He didn't even bother lifting his hand, though he was sure it disappointed the men arrayed around him. Elements flew together at his command, energy sparked and the air sizzled with unseen forces. The horizon lit up like a sunrise. In his trance, Mustang continued to pour hydrogen on the town in great, explosive clumps. The booming reached them after strange seconds. One could almost see the air rippling as the reaction pushed itself back towards them. When he was certain enough of the wooden house frames had caught, Mustang snipped off oxygen from the air around the city—nifty as a tailor—and simply kept the fire going strong enough until he was able to retire his services. He could tell the very second when he was able pass ownership along. He peeled off his gloves and placed them in pockets full of sand. _It's all yours, darling_, he said to the distant inferno. With his gloves off, it never did answer him.

They hadn't been back at camp thirty minutes before the message came through. A terrible error had been made.

The first Mustang was aware of it was a tin cup thrown violently at his chest as he sat dosing under the shade of a water tower. His right glove was on his hand before he'd even fully opened his eyes.

'See!' cried a man with grey hair. Presumably the chap who'd thrown the tumbler. 'See how fucking keen he is to kill us!'

It was difficult to understand all those words coming out of him all at once and confused by spit. The major was terribly tired. He closed his eyes again, ignoring the enraged cries of the enlisted man. It wasn't for nothing, bringing Al Debrah to the ground like that, easy as the alchemical process was. It cost him in energy: maybe three good meals' worth. He rarely had to take a dump when he was kept busy like this; some quirk of biology he didn't trouble himself to think about much. Another item struck him. This time a full canteen. It bounced off his shoulder and landed in his lap.

'What?' he managed after a time. 'You're addressing an officer, man. You might at least throw your canteen at me with a modicum of respect.'

Then suddenly Hughes was there at his shoulder, hoisting him up from under the arms and steering him away from the grey-haired man and other troops who had started to form the telling circle of a brewing fight.

'Come on,' he said, his voice very soft. 'Let's get out of this sun.'

'I was in the shade,' said Mustang stupidly. His feet were very heavy. He tripped once or twice and his left knee felt like it was made of nothing more substantial than balsa wood. He pushed his mouth against Hughes's shoulder and tried to nod off as they made their way towards wherever it was his friend wanted him to go.

He was dragged into a dry goods tent and sat down on a bag of dried beans. They crunched under his weight. He almost fell sideways off the sack but Hughes steadied him with one hand, green eyes studying his face with some concern. When he was sure Mustang wasn't about to topple sideways into the boxed jars of pickles, Hughes began speaking.

Colonel Dubroff's men had been detained in Al Debrah. They'd found an arms cache somewhere inside the town walls and wanted to itemise and collect the munitions before moving out. They were still there at midday when Mustang brought the city down. Hughes's report was dotted with loud, indignant questions: Hadn't Abernethy received the message? Wasn't there someone who should be in charge of this sort of thing? Why on Earth did they schedule a State Alchemist so close to such a loose deployment?

Mustang couldn't really be sure how the report ended. He'd doubled over in a kind of agony, clutching at his stomach as though it might steel him against the approaching tsunami. A wail was building in his throat, murderous. Animal. He wanted to find the grey-haired man. He rose to his feet but Hughes shoved him back down.

'You won't be held accountable,' Hughes was saying. 'Do you hear? They know it's not your fault. There's no way you could have known.' He patted his face hard enough to sting. 'They know it's not your fault.'

Mustang was shaking. His trembling was so severe that his vision shook. Then he was gagging on air. His empty stomach had nothing to provide. So he shook and gagged; clawed at his own stomach. In a brief hiccup of respite, he smashed a jar against another and tried to thrust the butt of it into his pulsing throat. All this was done in the company of Hughes alone (who having waited for such an attempt for some months was quite prepared for it and was thus able to disarm the alchemist in no time and with no harm done). Long after the war though, when the memory came to him one quiet evening, Mustang suspected that Abernethy himself was right outside the tent: ready with a pistol.

When he arrived back in Central, the stink of Ishbal in his hair and on his skin, Mustang considered not going home. He could find a hotel easily enough—maybe even get a small room in the officer's quarters. But he was weak and terribly scared. Hughes's vision, the possibility of putting horrors aside, was still fresh in his mind; perhaps he _could_ lie, just as his friend was ready to lie to his darling Gracia.

So, with boots still full of sand, he climbed the steps towards Madame Christmas's bar, hungry for those few seconds of relief and pride in his mother's eyes before she saw the murder in his own.

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**Thanks.**


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